


shiloh

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Crossdressing, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Gender Issues, John Irving-centric, Other, Post-Canon, Sharing a Bed, and they were ROOMMATES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29275128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: shilohn. -  Biblical, a place of rest.John has returned home after surviving the worst reaches of the planet, but he fears he no longer knows himself.
Relationships: John Irving/Edward Little
Comments: 16
Kudos: 28
Collections: John Irving Birthday Week 2021, The Terror Bingo, The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	shiloh

**Author's Note:**

> like a fiend, I've combined prompts from several events – lost & found (rare pair week), heartfelt pleasure (Irving’s bday celebration), and shelter (theterrorbingo).
> 
> More specific notes at the end!

A fly buzzes along Sir John Ross’s hairline. He watches it crawl along the part in his hair before it flies around his head and lands on Sir John’s collar. Everyone seems unaffected by the fly, but it is all that he can look at: this omen of death and rot, this pesky little gnat interrupting a court martial where a newsman would have sold a limb for the chance to sit in on one of the most harrowing moments in recent naval history.

He almost laughs at the absurdity of the thought, but he quells the urge by looking down at his hands in his lap. He covers his left hand with his right. It helps.

There were no insects in the Arctic. No flies. No ants, no roaches, no crickets to sing nor glow worms to dot the ground. Nothing biting at his skin but the cold. No vermin burrowing into the hull of the ship but rats. He never dwelt on the emptiness for fear that it might, given the chance, seep into every inch of his body until there was room for nothing else, and he would be carried away by his despair until there was nothing remaining, nothing but—

“John?”

He starts, eyes skittering to the man beside him.

Edward is looking sidelong at him, head angled, chin dipped to his chest. He nudges John’s thigh, and John looks back at the tableau of captains and admirals. His mouth hangs open as he realizes they are waiting for him.

“I…beg your pardon,” he says.

The younger Ross—with his very old and kind eyes staring from his very young and kind face—inclines his head.

“It’s quite all right, Lieutenant. If you have anything to add to Captain Crozier’s account of your provisions or a lack of any other preparation, please share.” He gives him a tight smile, one that doesn’t reaches his eyes. “To help us better plan in the future, you understand.”

“Of course, yes.”

John dutifully goes through his recollection of their stores, how some tins were more susceptible to rot than others. The men across the table relax. Every man present knows that when this inconvenient necessity is finished, this parody of a court martial, they all will return to their lives outside this building, each collectively erasing the past five years from his memory.

The fly lands on the table before John.

He stumbles over a sentence, a stutter quite unlike himself as he pauses overly long on a word. Dear sweet Edward lays his hand over John’s thigh to encourage him, and John continues, some of the Arctic’s emptiness pouring from him.

Only some.

***

They rent a house near Edward’s sister and her husband. There is an unspoken agreement between the two households concerning the privacy that Edward and John require, and so the closeness of family remains a comfort rather than a burden. Edward takes care of most of the details, but despite the maid and the cook he hired, John’s empty hands itch for a new kind of duty. He tidies and cleans when he is out of sight of both Edward and the maid. The act clears his head, fills the void in his chest.

In many ways, he envies the maid: her youth, her clear bright eyes, her unfettered lust for life.

(Once, John encountered her sharing a kiss with a young man in the yard behind the shed. He expected to feel revulsion, some kind of anger, but he found himself struck by a strange longing to be in her place, small and held and protected and loved. He hurried away before either of them saw him, the guilt plaguing him for days after.)

One day, Edward discovers him dusting the bookshelves.

John doesn’t hear him enter, and so is stuck standing on the footstool so he may reach the top of the shelves, the rag held to his chest like a shield.

“For heaven’s sake, John, you don’t have to do that. It’s why we have Kitty.”

“I don’t mind. I like being useful.”

“You don’t have to be useful.”

“I want to…” John doesn’t finish the thought, but Edward goes to him nonetheless, wrapping his hands around both of John’s arms. For a second, it is almost like being held, so John lets Edward pull him from the stool.

***

When he dreams of pleasure, he dreams also of pain. He can hear his old friend Malcolm’s dry voice in his head, teasing him for how Presbyterian it is to equate all luxuries with deviance.

“Not everything is a sin. Not every _nice_ thing, I should say. Surely you don’t enjoy a piece of fruit or sunlight as though it were wrong of you.”

John bit his tongue to keep himself from an unkind retort. He knew that Malcolm meant no harm, and distantly, some instinct inside John feared that Malcolm was right.

And perhaps it is this same contrary voice inside him that justifies the irony of his waking to seed spilled on his belly when his dreams had been plagued by the memory of Hickey’s knife stabbing into him again and again.

His cock rarely rises anymore except for when he sleeps. A possible side effect of the stab wounds, the scurvy. The doctor was somewhat baffled by it, believing at John’s age that such a malady would correct itself. But without a spouse and the obligation to start a family, it is no true loss for John. He unearths pleasure elsewhere, in the shock of clean bedclothes against his legs, cold water on his face in the morning, the burn of his skin where Edward touches it in passing.

Perhaps Malcolm was correct in his teasing; all pleasure is somehow wrong.

John keeps his back to the mirror as he washes his stomach clean, wincing every time the cloth grazes his scars.

***

(When a letter from Malcolm arrives, John leaps from the breakfast table in a graceless clatter, hurrying from the room to privately read Malcolm’s relief that he had returned from the Arctic and that the embarrassing mess of the court martial was over. He writes how desperate he is to see John and includes an entreaty that John visit him at Burnfoot; how happy that would make him. John cannot finish the letter as he reads the first half repeatedly until he is shaken from his trance by Edward silently following him into the study and gently prying the letter from his shaking hands. The letter has sat unanswered in desk drawer ever since.)

***

He sees the dress in a shop display while on an errand with Kitty. She is oblivious as he stops to examine the gown, his eyes drawn to the simple but elegant design—how much this dress would speak to a lady’s taste and austerity, a unique if admirable balance.

His reflection is uneven in the glass, but in a moment of fancy, he moves until he is centered in the dress. The reflection is far from perfect, the collar sitting too high, the sleeves hanging empty as John keeps his own arms folded across his body. But the image he sees fuels a desire he never realized he had. He wonders how the dress might feel, how the many layers of fabric would embrace him like a protective lover, hiding his deformities from sight, cherishing him inside cotton and silk. He nearly loses himself in the fantasy, were it not for the gentleman lingering to his left, watching him far too closely.

John keeps his gaze forward, trying to memorize how his reflection looks within the dress, but when the man beside him takes a step nearer to him, John shoves his hands into his pockets, turning to hurry down the block. He keeps his eyes firmly on the ground until he reaches the grocer’s and reunites with Kitty.

***

He visits the storefront on a second occasion, this time alone. His traitorous feet won’t let him any closer than the adjacent business, and he stands as far away on the pavement as he can, his heels hugging the curb. The overcast sky casts the shop’s window into a metallic sheen, obscuring the entire display behind silver. Try as he might, he can’t see anything without moving closer, and when rain begins to fall in earnest, he reluctantly leaves.

The third time he visits the store, he is able to summon the courage to cross the threshold. It is the first time he sees the gown without a window separating them. The dress is cut from a pale pink fabric that the sun has bleached to a lovely pastel. The waist sits low, the only decoration a set of woven buttons along the hem of the bodice and thin piping running up the chest. The neckline is wide, designed to display the elegant line of a lady’s unblemished shoulders, and the sleeves are suitably tight. John imagines how they might confine his shoulders, forcing him still, how freeing that would feel.

The tailor approaches him first.

“Ah, that,” he says with a nod to the window, “is one of our bestsellers, that is. Are you interested in putting in an order?”

John nods and follows the man to the counter. “How much?” He winces at the steep price, but the tailor politely doesn’t comment. “Yes, that is…adequate.”

“Excellent. May I schedule a fitting for your—” The tailor raises his eyes from his book. “Your wife?”

In a state of panic, John nearly abandons the endeavor there.

“It’s best she doesn’t leave the house,” John says in a rush, the lie fitting too well in his mouth. He swallows. “She has been unwell for so long. I hope that a new dress might lift her spirits.”

The tailor nods, sympathy clear on his face.

“That’s a goodly thing to do, sir. I can make it off her measurements, sir, but I fear it won’t fit as nicely.”

“That’s fine,” John interrupts. “She’ll likely only wear it around the house.”

Another nod from the tailor. “Shall I put down your name?”

“Malcolm,” John says, another lie given too easily, “John Malcolm.”

“Your address?”

“I’ll pick it up myself.” He swallows when his voice cracks. “All the better to surprise her.”

The tailor either doesn’t notice John’s stutter or doesn’t care as he scribbles down the details. He writes what measurements he needs on a scrap of paper and hands it to John.

“Waist and bust are the most important,” he explains, “as well as the length of her arms. Measurements work best over her, ah, undergarments, sir.”

Red-faced, John takes the paper with a nod. Sweat gathers beneath his arms.

He thinks for a moment and asks, “Might the gown be made in another color?”

***

(He feels the same exhilaration, the cunning shame, of an onanist as he undresses that same evening in his bedroom. He wraps the cord around his waist and his chest, trembling when it makes his flesh ache. And while his cock never stirs, he finishes taking his measurements with a sort of breathless pleasure, his limbs tingling long after he has redressed and gone to bed.)

***

“My sister has invited us to dinner on Friday.” Edward must see the trepidation in his face because he quickly amends, “It would be a casual affair. Only herself, her husband, you, and me. No other guests.”

John looks at the half-written letter to his sister where it lies son the desk. He has visited only once though his family insists they understand. It is a long journey from London to Edinburgh, after all.

“That sounds tolerable,” he says. He dips his pen into the inkpot, ignoring the phantom pain in his fingers.

“Only just?” Edward asks, the humor lost somewhere in the lilt of his voice, the doubt clouding his features.

Ink blots the page, blackening the last word John wrote.

“No, it’s not… I didn’t mean…” He starts to stand, but Edward waves him off. “Dinner would be fine, enjoyable.”

Edward wets his lips before skimming over the letter in his hands again. “Shall I tell her we’ll both be there then?”

John watches the ink as it spreads further, black as blood flecked on snow. He will have to start the letter anew with a fresh piece of paper.

“Yes, tell her.”

***

She will be beautiful. Edward’s sister always is.

John works himself into a frenzy the morning of their engagement. He rises early from a fitful sleep, brimming with lurid dreams of how the dinner will commence. Sometimes, it’s foolish; he spills wine onto his waistcoat, or he feeds the dog table scraps only for his hosts to reproach him. Other times, the servant presents the meat of his own leg, carved on the platter, the flesh crawling with maggots, and John turns his horrified gaze upon the man’s face to find Hickey grinning at him before plunging the knife into John’s chest.

He begs off the dinner plans from his bed, the covers pulled to his ear as he lies on his side. He is not brave enough to face Edward and witness his disappointment.

“I’ll send her a note that you’re unwell. We can go another time.”

“She planned the dinner for tonight. I don’t want to trouble her.”

“She won’t mind,” Edward says.

“No, please go. Tell them I’m sorry. I’ll feel better by morning, I’m sure of it.”

Edward is quiet for a long while. John squeezes his eyes shut as though he were about to fall asleep. But he needn’t concern himself, for he hears Edward sigh followed by the click of the door.

***

John did not used to be a man who jealously hoarded secrets, and he is unsure when he became this man who lies with alarming frequency. He is accustomed to hiding his feelings about many things, but it is one thing to suppress an ugly side of oneself. It is another altogether to willfully and continually deceive those closest to him. The lies come easily when he refuses an invitation to tea or explains that he has a sore throat when Edward attends the theatre.

Edward has expressed worry in his usual quiet way: prolonged glances, thoughtful frowns, and when there are no prying eyes present, even a light touch at John’s elbow.

Despite the many jilted invitations, Edward never seems to resent John’s company. When there are no pressing engagements, they spend their evenings by the hearth in the study where Kitty leaves them with a tray of sherry. The two of them go hoarse in an intense discussion of politics and religion, pacing about the room until they sit knee to knee on the settee, each still wildly gesticulating as he speaks until John feels the most alive that he has in years.

(He thinks how easy it would be for him to lean in and press his lips against that sliver of skin between Edward’s whiskers and his collar— How easy it would be to—)

Kitty interrupts to fetch the empty glasses and the tray, and it is her presence that keeps John’s control in place. Edward stands to stoke the fire, not quite meeting John’s eyes when he rises, and John thinks that it is perhaps for the best.

***

John stands in the tailor’s shop with the brim of his hat pinched between his hands.

“Tis a lovely thing, if I say so,” the tailor says as he packages the gown into a box. “My apprentice did the stitching around the bodice. You’ll see he has a keen eye for detail. Lovely, lovely work.”

John glances over the tailor’s shoulder to see said apprentice peering around the doorjamb, and John quickly drops his gaze back to the box.

“I’ll be sure to point out the stitching to my wife. I am certain she will like it. How much more do I owe you?”

“That will be one pound, five shillings, Mr. Malcolm.”

John’s stomach twists at the false name he gave, another easy lie that he had completely forgotten. He prays that the tailor doesn’t notice how his hands tremble as he doles out the payment and accepts the box.

His pulse slows somewhat when the shop’s door latches shut behind him, and he hurries around the corner where he meets Kitty returning from the bookshop.

“Oh, Mr. Irving! They had the hymnal you reserved, the mathematics book, and the poetry collection for Mr. Little. No new prayer book, I’m afraid. Delay at the printers, the clerk tells me.” She eyes the parcel in his arms but doesn’t inquire about the contents, simply asking, “Do you need me to carry that for you, sir?”

John bristles, his nerves still a mess. He takes a step back from Kitty. “I’m not an invalid,” he snaps.

Kitty remains poised as always, her only reaction a double-blink of her eyes. The shame John feels from his outburst is immediate.

“But thank you,” he says, subdued.

She gives a bob with her head, a sort of half-curtsy that she favors when it’s clear she is thinking about the strangeness of the two men who employ her—what whispering conversations she and the cook must have between themselves, concerning the Arctic explorers under their roof.

John sets a brisk pace for home. He holds the parcel under his left arm, tucking his right hand with its ruined fingers into his pocket.

***

He waits for an afternoon where everyone but the maid has vacated the house. Edward is gone to the Admiralty for business, and the cook is visiting a relative outside London.

And in their absence, behind his closed bedroom door, John arranges the outfit he has been assembling in secret. He brushes his hands down the front of the chemise, smoothing away wrinkles until he reaches the hem with its border of sweet eyelet lace. Next to it, he places the crinoline and petticoat, the corset, as well as the simple woven bonnet which he impulsively purchased at a milliner’s not three days prior.

John regrets the lack of stockings or shoes, but otherwise, after weeks of painstaking work, the other accoutrements are all present.

He retrieves the box with the gown from beneath the bed. He holds his breath as he opens it.

The fabric has a slight sheen to it, the color a buttery beige. The skirt is voluminous, gathered at the waist in wide pleats. Holding it by the sleeves, he turns it around and inspects the long line of buttons down its back. He determines that it will be difficult to dress by himself, but it is an effort well worth the hassle.

He begins undressing before he loses his nerve. As he tugs his shirttails from his trousers, his fingers brush against the ugly scars marring his torso. He flinches, instinctually glancing at himself in the mirror. 

He used to count them, the scars. Every night with religious fervor until his hands would shake. There eventually came a night where Edward knocked on his door, asking through the panel if John were all right. How his face had burned when he realized that Edward could hear his voice counting through the wall, and he just barely kept the tremor from his voice when he assured Edward he was fine. Since then, John has resisted the urge to touch or look upon his bare self.

Even now he turns from the mirror. He swallows the lump in his throat and continues stripping until he is naked. The room is chilly despite the season. A part of John is relieved that the cold still affects him, remembering how horrible their first summer back was, how miserable the heat had been.

Briskly, he rubs his hands down his arms until the gooseflesh abates. When the cold sneaks into his ankles, making the joint throb, he considers slipping back into his socks, but he does not want anything to interfere.

He gathers the hem of the chemise into his hands and pulls it over his head, closing his eyes as the fabric billows around him, sliding down his front. The sensation is heightened by the secrecy of it. Pleasure shudders through him, his skin prickling where the fabric brushes it. He trails his hand up his side, relishing the drag of the linen against his hip.

The corset comes next. He pulls it over his head. It takes him several minutes of twisting his arms around his back and tugging at the laces until he can tighten it enough to tie the ends into a knot at the base. Despite his terrible lacing, the corset is still fits well.

In wonder, John peeks at the mirror. Much like the beginning of his watercolors, when the paint is nothing more than splashes and shapes, he sees the making of the portrait he is trying to create. The corset lies flat against his breastbone, accentuating the narrow length of his torso. He takes a deep breath, feeling how the corset holds him secure. He runs his hand down the boning, enjoying how soft and how strong the fabric is all at once.

He returns to the bed for the crinoline and the petticoat. They are simpler to put on, requiring nothing more than a solid knot to keep them in place. Next, the dress. He unhooks the buttons on the back in preparation before gathering the skirt into his hands. He tries to not crush the fabric as he pulls it over his head. Same as he did with the chemise, he closes his eyes as he feels the air shift about him and the fabric settling over his shoulders and against his waist. He waits, equal parts anxious and excited as he open his eyes and straightens the gown’s skirt over the petticoat.

The fabric lets out a hiss as he fixes the pleats, fanning the skirt until it grazes the tops of his feet. It is a quiet sound, one that would be muted by a crackling fire or the cheerful conversation from the maid dressing him.

(Such an idea makes him pause; that a maid might dress him, rather than a valet. Out of what strange well of thought did that spring?)

He continues smoothing the pleats in a nervous, repetitive gesture as he tries to suppress the sudden rise of mortification in his throat.

He is a little boy once more, sitting with his books and his thoughts, kneeling by his bed as he battles his desire for pleasure, the guilt of such euphoria; how he, forever sinful, seeks out those jolts of sensation only to punish himself for them later; the blossoming of a good word from a mentor, a fleeting touch at his back from a friend. He never gave into such base urges as to touch himself and seek the same pleasure alone. The guilt was less when the pleasure was from someone else, incidental, an accident. He thought that God would be more forgiving that way.

He’s breathing hard now—harsh gulps of air as he grinds his teeth. He sits on the edge of the bed facing the window. His heart hammers against his ribs, against the corset.

“There is no one here but you,” he whispers. “You are doing no one harm.”

There is no one here but himself. He need not feel any shame. He repeats that in his head as he pulls on one sleeve and then the other. They are not as tight as he expected, but once he has them pulled to his shoulders, he feels how their seams will keep his arms rigid. He tucks the straps of the corset under the neckline so that they don’t show, hiding the edges of the chemise as well.

He takes a deep breath through his nose before continuing with the dress’s buttons. The buttons are much harder than the corset’s laces, but John is determined. He twists his arms around, feeling for the closures, the gown’s sleeves hindering his movement. He pauses when he hears a thread rip, and he stops altogether when one of the sleeves slides down his arm. He lets out an irritated huff and closes his eyes.

He wanted to do this alone, and here it was one of the final steps keeping him from completion. He mulls over his options and is about to glumly start removing the dress for another attempt at a later time when a knock sounds at his door.

Flinching, he barely has enough sense to clamber onto the bed and yank the bedcurtain closed so that he may hide himself from view, the move so rapid and violent that more thread rips.

“John?” he hears through the door. “Are you there?”

_Edward._

“Yes, I’m here. You’ve returned already?”

The floorboard creaks as Edward shifts outside.

“Yes, the captain was ill. I missed his telegram.” He adds after a second creak, “Are _you_ feeling at all better?”

John bites his bottom lip hard, remembering the lie he gave poor Edward so that he could lie in bed all morning without interruption. He delays his answer long enough that Edward tries the door, and John realizes with stupid alarm that he had neglected to lock it.

“John?” Edward asks, his voice louder without a wall between them and, to John’s ears, more accusatory.

“Don’t,” John bites out in a strangled voice.

Edward pauses, though John can sense him on the other side of the curtain with such acute clarity that it makes his head spin. What Edward must think, seeing his clothes lying on the floor in disarray. He clutches his waist, starting to gasp in and out again. What had given him comfort minutes ago now feels constrictive and suffocating.

“John?” Edward repeats, closer still. His voice has dropped to a murmur. “Shall I leave?”

 _No_ , John’s voice shouts in his head, but all he manages out loud is a strangled, “I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.”

Before John can utter another objection, Edward pulls the curtain open. John hangs his head, unable to meet Edward’s eyes. The neckline slides indecently from his shoulders, revealing the top of the corset and the chemise. Edward is silent, and John braces himself for the rebuke he is surely about to receive for the horrible embarrassment of his secret.

“Is this all?” Edward asks.

John winces. “Please, I did not mean…”

“Do you need help?”

John looks at him, eyes wide. There is no reproach on Edward’s face, only curiosity.

When John does not answer, Edward takes another step forward. He holds a hand up like he might do with a spooked dog.

“Turn around,” he says, his voice gentle.

It is easier, perhaps, to let his mind go numb and take direction. John faces the wallpapered panel behind him, the bureau nestled beside the bed. He gasps when he feels Edward’s hands at his waist, and Edward retreats for a moment, a murmured apology spilling from him before he starts to loosen the corset. John sighs, silently this time, but he is unable to fully stamp down his disappointment.

That is, until Edward loosens half of the laces only to pull them taut once more.

John sucks in a breath as Edward’s nimble fingers guide the edges of the corset together. He asks if it feels all right—neither too tight nor too loose.

Mutely, John nods, and Edward ties a bow at the end.

“Here,” he murmurs again, holding one of the sleeves so that John may slip his arm back into it.

“I have it,” John says in a whisper.

Once both sleeves are in place, Edward starts buttoning the back. Slowly, the bodice cinches over the corset and chemise, and the familiar tingling across his skin returns. When Edward is finished, he lets out a sigh, his warm breath hitting the back of John’s neck. His hands hover somewhere along the line of buttons, eventually opting to rest on John’s waist.

“Would you like to see?” he asks.

Again, all John can manage is a nod, and he lets Edward lead him to the mirror.

For several seconds, he stares at the bottom of the gown in the mirror’s reflection until he is bold enough to drag his gaze upward. He folds his hands together, hiding his fingers against his stomach as he appraises his reflection.

“I should have shaved. The beard rather ruins the illusion, wouldn’t you say.” He raises a hand to his cheek, the ruined tips of his fingers coming into view. He flinches, holding his hand out in front of him.

“I should have bought gloves as well.”

Edward stops John from his fidgeting, clasping John’s hand between his, and for a terrifying (exhilarating) second, John thinks that Edward intends to kiss him. He looks John up and down, taking a step back to better see where the gown brushes the floor.

He nods. “It suits you.”

The words of praise lift John as high as any kiss, and he cannot stop himself from smiling, small though it may be.

“Thank you.”

***

Two days later, John finds a box on his desk. It is small and oblong, the cardboard painted navy blue. There is no accompanying note, no explanation to the box’s sudden arrival.

He opens it, revealing a pair of tea-colored gloves. With his heart in his throat, John pulls one of them on. It fits well. The leather is soft as baby’s skin, the cuffs scalloped and feminine, and the fur lining soothes his scarred skin.

“Edward,” John breathes, turning his hand palm up before he lifts his gloved hand to his face, cupping his own cheek.

He hears the floor in the hall creaking behind him, and he hurriedly removes his hand from his face, returning the gloves to the box by the time Kitty enters with fresh wood for the fireplace.

***

Another letter from Malcolm. More reserved than the last. John swears to himself that he will reply by the next day. Though he leaves the letter half-read on his desk before he retires, his stomach in knots.

He is unable to sleep, and when he hears the clock downstairs chime for midnight, he sighs and gets up. He considers going to his study, reading Malcolm’s letter by candlelight and attempting an answer draft by painstaking draft.

Wrapping himself in his dressing gown, he bundles his feet in his slippers and creeps out of his bedroom. But rather than going downstairs, he slinks across the hallway. He tries the knob on Edward’s door, finding it unlocked, and he slips inside. The coals are still smoldering in the fireplace, and in the dim light, John can just make out the bed with the canopy tied open on one side. He hears Edward stirring.

“John?” he asks in a sleep-thick voice.

John swallows, any excuse for why he is here stuck in his throat. From the bed comes another whisper of cloth as Edward sits up. “Is something the matter?”

“It’s nothing,” John manages.

Edward moves to the edge of the bed. He reaches for John, finding his hand. He holds it, neither pulling nor pushing John.

“It’s all right if it’s nothing,” he says.

John releases a great quivery sigh, the threat of tears clogging his throat and keeping him from saying anything more. He doesn’t fight when Edward ushers him into the bed, pulling the quilt over both of them.

With Edward’s face mere inches from his own and the warm weight of Edward’s hand at his waist, John finally sleeps.

***

He rouses when Kitty enters, and his heart beats like a drum as he panics, terrified at whatever she may think, discovering her employers in bed together.

Edward squeezes his side, his arm sliding into a deeper embrace. John risks opening his eyes and is surprised to find Edward still asleep, his face relaxed, no frown on his lips. Even the ever-present crease between his eyebrows has lifted.

The guilt inside John is immense as he thinks of all the support Edward has given him these past months and what little he has offered in return. It is not his demons alone that haunt this house.

When Kitty finishes clearing the ashes and rousing the fire, she leaves without a second glance to the bed. John sidles closer to Edward, so much so that their noses nearly touch, and he falls back asleep.

***

On Sunday, after the staff have left for their half-day off, John retrieves the gown and undergarments from his wardrobe. Edward helps him dress. It has become an easy waltz for them as Edward laces the corset and John adjusts crinoline around his waist. John closes his eyes when Edward helps pull the gown over his head. He keeps them closed until Edward finishes the buttons in the back.

At this point, Edward leaves the room. The rest is up to John.

The shoes are new (another gift from Edward), and the leather is tight on John’s instep. But the discomfort hardly matters not when the image is finally complete.

He looks at himself in the mirror, judging his appearance with a critical eye. The tips of the shoes are barely visible beneath the skirt. The pleats are free of any wrinkles and hang beautifully from his waist. His gloved hands rest at his sides, the empty fingers stuffed with fabric to keep their shape. A new shawl covers his shoulders, hiding the pale skin and the edge of a scar where it peeks from behind the collar. And finally he adds the bonnet, dressed with a garnet ribbon to match the deep red shawl.

Again, he contemplates shaving his beard, but facial hair aside, the image of himself in the mirror is enough to loosen the tight band around his heart. The corset hugs him as surely as a human’s embrace, and he finds that he can breathe easier with it on.

Now, it is time to join Edward.

Edward is waiting for him at the base of the stairs. He is dressed in his coat, hat, and gloves. For added effect, he has a cane slung over one arm. His eyes light up when sees John, and his gaze never leaves him as he walks down the stairs.

Once John is near, he holds out his hand to help him descend the last two steps.

“You look…”

When he hesitates, John blanches, tugging uselessly at the already impeccable skirt.

“I know I hardly look the part.” He gestures at his chin. “I should shave for next time—”

Edward catches his hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss on John’s knuckles.

“You look dashing.” He offers his elbow. “Shall we?”

John nods. He tucks his gloved hand into the curve of his arm, letting Edward start their walk around the house. The curtains are all drawn, and they will not risk going into the garden despite Edward’s staunch belief that the garden would be all right. But the idea makes John uneasy, so he doesn’t mention it. They circle around the drawing room, down the hall toward the library and study, taking a sharp turn by the kitchen and the dining room.

They repeat the same looping path once more until they end in the drawing room where a tray of tea and biscuits waits for them. The tea is lukewarm, but John doesn’t mind. Anything to lessen the flush across his cheeks. His heart beats as surely as though he had just gone for a vigorous swim, and all from walking about his own house in a dress. He gives a sad chuckle into the rim of his cup, and Edward looks at him.

John shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

Edward frowns but otherwise makes no comment. Looking away, he takes a slow sip of his tea before clearing his throat. “I have been meaning to tell you, John. I’ve a cousin just outside Leeds with a country estate that needs managing. He’s too ill to care for it himself, and he has asked among my brothers which of us would be willing to take it on.”

He sets aside his cup. It clatters loudly in its saucer, making him wince.

“What I mean is,” he says in a rush, “that as much as I want to give you everything you need here, everything that makes you comfortable, perhaps it might be easier outside London. It’s a larger house, larger grounds. You may even be able to walk outside instead of—”

“Pantomiming a woman in the parlor?” He says it without any heat and, surprising even himself, without any real grief. How else can he put into words how unique his sentiments are, how he remembers that early reflection in the shop window as though it were yesterday, how he feels stranded somewhere in the glass, between the woman in the window wearing the dress and the man on the street wearing trousers.

“I don’t mean it like that, John,” Edward says, his shoulders drooping. “I only want you to be happy.”

John grows very still. He stares down at his lap, covered in the golden silk that had felt like such an impossibility when he first laid eyes on the display.

“I am,” he says. A tiny, shocked smile grows on his face. “I _am_ happy. More so than I have been in a long time, I think.”

Edward looks unconvinced, his frown verging on a sulk. John leaves his chair to sit by him on the settee. He takes Edward’s hands and holds them in his lap.

“That we are alive is a great source of happiness to me. You have given me so much—your companionship, most of all. It is more than enough.”

Edward pulls his bottom lip between his teeth before raising his gaze.

“Will you consider it at least?”

“It is kind of you to offer it.” John nods. “Yes, I will think on it.”

Before he can return to his chair, Edward kisses him on his cheek. John freezes to which Edward—infuriatingly—smirks, John’s reaction clearly a source of amusement for him.

“Then your consideration,” Edward says, leaning close enough to kiss him again, “will also be enough for me.”

***

In bed that same evening, John asks, “It’s not a sheep farm, is it?”

Edward’s reply comes muffled from where his face is half-buried in his pillow, “No, no, only a couple sheep…”

“Good.” John nods. “I detest sheep.”

Edward sighs, patting his arm before rolling over, and in the darkness of the room, John finds enough courage to truly imagine the idea of the two of them running an estate, managing a much larger household, maintaining substantial acreage.

“Would that make us gentlemen farmers if we take your cousin’s estate?” John asks, the idea as preposterous to him as it is strangely appealing.

Asleep, Edward’s only answer is a sigh. John slides deeper under the blanket, laying his head beside Edward’s shoulder.

He will reply to Malcolm’s letter tomorrow. That much, he swears.

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic to talk about gender, trauma & the methods by which we heal ourselves. The prompts fell into place after the fact. For the sake of the narrative, I use he/him pronouns to refer to John although he is what I interpret as nonbinary here. 
> 
> For other warnings, there are references to past cannibalism, Hickey's attempted murder of John, injuries and subsequent mutilation but nothing graphic enough to warrant a tag. 
> 
> oh yeah, and here's [the dress](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/108098?searchField=All&sortBy=Relevance&when=A.D.+1800-1900&where=United+Kingdom&what=Dresses&ft=*&offset=80&rpp=20&pos=98)!


End file.
